Dark Side of the Moon
by marianna
Summary: Set 10 years in the future. Veronica is living in Boston and getting ready for her impending nuptuals. Will a mysterious letter brought from her father change her plans? Totally not as cheesy as it sounds.


She's getting married in a week. She almost can't believe it as she glances into her mirrored reflection, eyes narrowed, looking for any imperfection within herself that could possibly ruin the day. She resists the urge to glance at her watch, which has been set to tell her exactly how much time there is left, the counter ticking down the hours, minutes and seconds until the big day. It would be _perfect_-she'd worked too hard and fought too long for her marriage to start on a hitch.

"You look beautiful, honey." Her father's worn voice surprises her out of her reverie and she spins into his arms, gleeful in a way she hasn't been in years.

"What are you doing here, old man?" She asks, wrapping herself around him, ignoring the seamstress' anguished cries about fabric and pattern loss. "I thought you couldn't make it to Boston until next week." She pulls back to look at him, her smile open and wide, torrents of happiness flowing through her. He takes a step back suddenly, his face all business, and she feels all her gaiety drain away. "What's wrong, Papa Mars?" She asks, perching tiny hands on tinier hips as the inept seamstress flutters around her, waving her arms madly and muttering something in French. She knew there was a reason she'd hated French in high school. "I know that face." She tries to move forward again, but she's been caught in the woman's clutches and there are about 85 pins attaching her to the floor. She feels the panic constrict around her heart, and though she tries to shove it away, it doesn't budge. _Don't say you have to miss the wedding, _don't_ say you have to miss the wedding. _

"The thing is-"

"Don't say you have to miss the wedding." She blurts, two high spots of color brightening her cheeks.

"Miss the wedding?" For once his perplexity reassures her, and to the dressmaker's dismay, she has launched herself at him again, hugging him for all that he's worth. "Sweetheart, have I ever missed a wedding before?" She giggles as she pulls back and glances up at him, her fingers tracing his weathered skin lightly. He's gotten older since she'd last seen him, and it worries her, yet _another_ thing to add to her already overflowing list.

"Well, there was that one time, in prison... They wouldn't let you be there for that." She makes a scandalized face, and though she's gasping, the seamstress takes the opportunity to fasten her to the floor, her fingers flying madly around Veronica's feet, pins hanging from her lips in every which direction.

"It's lucky they have laser surgery now. It would've been just awful getting the 'Butch' off your shoulder another way." She giggles again, the sound whimsical and fresh to his ears, and at the sight of his smile, something eases inside her-but not by much.

"So, spill, Pops. What has you flying 3,500 miles a week early? Oh, and for the smooth follow up, how did you know I'd be _here_, at my final fitting?"

"_Trying_ to get your final fitting." The woman below them grumbles, sticking another pin into Veronica's already full hem. She snorts lightly, covering her face with her hands as she tries to keep her giggles in.  
"It was the most surprising thing, honey. I picked up the phone, called your very posh Beacon Hill apartment, spoke to the young man apparently living there, who I have since learned is Toff-we're having a discussion about that later by the way, who claimed to be your fiancé, and who, consequently, told me where you'd be. He was very helpful." She smiles tightly; suddenly wishing she could sit, as a wave of exhaustion wells up within her.

"You could've called." She whispers softly, and he can hear the worry in her voice. "That's why they created cell phones, so estranged fathers and daughters could communicate without actually having to be in a room together."

"Veronica, we are not-" She laughs loudly, tendrils of her hair fluttering around her cheeks as she throws her head back, the sound reverberating through the tiny room.

"I never said we _were_ estranged, I said estranged families and cars with serial killers-" She pauses for a moment as she loses her breath, trying with all her might not to think back of that night, but failing almost miserably. "We're _not_ estranged, Dad." She continues, her hands settling on his shoulders. "We never will be." She hugs him close, can feel the tears welling in her eyes, and blinks them away. Her mascara will run, and she can't have him thinking that everything isn't perfect-because it is. It's actually more than perfect, and more than she could've ever asked for. She wipes her eyes discreetly and glances up at him. No matter what brought him here, she's glad to have his company. She's missed him far more than she'd realized.

"Ms. Mars, I'm done here. If you'd like to step behind the curtain and get out of your dress, I'll finish the alterations tonight and have it to you by Saturday morning at the latest." All traces of the aforementioned French accent have abandoned the woman's speech, and Veronica wonders for a moment if it's just another ploy to attract customers. She wouldn't doubt it.

"Sure," She responds, waiting to lift her foot until the confines of pins have been removed. "Dad, will you wait?" There's a slight pause as she looks up into his eyes, her eyes large and blue and pleading, and even if he'd been planning to leave, he wouldn't have been able to resist that face. "You still have to tell me why you're here so early." She winks then, her eyes twinkling, and he nods at her, a fond smile tipping his lips. The letter is burning a hole in his pocket, and he wishes like hell it didn't have to be like this. He reaches for it, his fingers splaying over the creased page, folded over in his coat pocket, the pads of his fingers smoothing over the words, which he recites to himself, because of course he knows them by heart. "I have the greatest idea-" She calls, coming out fast from behind the screen, taking him by surprise. The letter falls from his fingers before he can grasp it, and it twirls haphazardly until it lands on the floor by her feet. "Present for me?" She asks, bending to retrieve it before he even has the chance to speak. He moves to sit-if she intends to hash it out, they'll be here for a while. A tiny gasp escapes from her lips and it's almost as if all the air has been sucked out of the room.

"Veronica, honey-" She holds up her hand to stop him, her blonde head bent intently over the hastily scribbled words.

"What is this, dad?" She asks suddenly, and it's almost as though she's 16 again, and not 28 years old and ready to be getting married.

"He asked me to bring it, Veronica. I honestly didn't-"

"You can't tell me you didn't read it, because there's no envelope, and that could be because you'd already opened it and just discarded of it, but that's not your style. Option B would be that he chose not to use one purposely. I'm betting on the what's behind door two. He wanted you to know what was in this so he could-" Her fingers are shaking so violently that the letter slips from her grasp, and she falls back onto a chair because her feet won't hold her anymore.

"Ms. Mars, I thought you were leaving." The seamstress is back, and in the rational, calm portion of her brain, Veronica understands that. After all, it is _her_ shop that they're inhabiting. The other part of her, the shocked, furious part wants to snarl. To yell at the faux Frenchwoman until she has left, but if she wants a passable dress for her wedding day, that isn't an option. _Oh god, the _wedding_-and in a _week Suddenly, the days can't go more slowly.

"You came for…" She lifts her hand as if she expects the letter to still be grasped in between her fingers, but it's sitting innocuously on the parquet floor, glaring at her. The seamstress bends to reach for it, but Veronica beats her to it, snatching the letter and crushing it in the space between her jeans covered leg and her heavy leather jacket. Her eyes fix on his, liquid fire seeping from their depths. "So explain this to me, because I think I'm just a little confused. Instead of throwing this piece of crap-" She crumples the letter with her fist, but doesn't throw it away. "Away, you chose to bring it to me. Which is fine. It's great. I'm glad to see he's still delusional. But here? In Boston? The _week_ before my wedding? Did you come here straight from Logan-Oh hell." She'd stood in the middle of her impassioned speech, but as all the pieces click into place she collapses against the worn material of the chair again, burying her face in her hands.

"Veronica, it really isn't what you think it is-"

"There's a week until my wedding, dad. Not a few months or a few hours but a _week_. A week, in his twisted little mind is enough time to _do_ something about this. It was done on _purpose_."

"Veronica-" She's running before he's uttered the final syllable of her name, the crumpled letter trampled by her feet. He doesn't know why, but he shoves it into his pocket. He has a hunch that she'll want it at some point.

"You know the whole point of the me running away thing was so that you would follow me." Her soft voice whispers from behind him, and he nods gravely, a sheepish smile at the corners of his lips.

"I'm sorry, honey. Would you like to get a head start and I'll chase you again? It'll sort of be like tag, except with old people."

"Who are you calling old?" She asks, her eyebrows rising. She smiles, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes, and he can't say he blames her. She breathes a sigh of relief as they leave the dressmakers', her head lolling against his shoulder as he puts a protective arm around her.

"I'm sorry, Veronica." The words are so quiet that they're almost lost on the wind, and he starts to repeat himself, but her nodding head stops him.

"It's not your fault, Dad." He nods, even though he knows it isn't true. If he'd thrown the letter away, she wouldn't be thinking about it, it wouldn't be clouding her judgment, her temperament, her _feelings_. He should have just stayed out of it.

"I should tell you-"

"You're disaster?" She deadpans, and he smiles at the reference to their favorite musical.

"Honestly, honey-"

"Dad, I don't want to hear it. Really. I don't want to know how he found out I was getting married, or why he even cares. I don't want to know why he came to you instead of talking to me directly himself-although I probably would have slammed the door in his face if he'd tried. If you do talk to him though-because he's got to have you on some kind of retainer right? Must give target bomb at specific time. Must call in directly after deposit." Though she's joking, he can see the despair in her eyes. He really wishes he hadn't been the one to put it there, however inadvertent or not.

"He did ask me to call if there were any complications, but he was fairly confident that the message would speak for itself." _Of _course_ he was._ She stops suddenly, and Keith hopes that she isn't ready to run again. He isn't sure if he can catch up with her and he isn't as familiar with the streets of Boston as he used to be.

"Honey?" He asks, his voice soft as fingers brush against her arm. With no prompting she catapults herself into his arms, her carefully hidden tears exploding down her cheeks. He holds her tightly, whispering soothing nothings into her hair, but she is inconsolable.

"Man, V. You haven't seen me for a few hours and already you're in the arms of other men. Should I be worried?" Wiping her eyes as she turns, she can't suppress her grin at the sight of Toff, rumpled and beautiful, the smudge of paint on his cheek merely adding to the appeal.

"Hi, Toff." She breathes almost shyly, dropping her father's hand to reach for his. "I'd like you to meet the other most important man in my life, Keith Mars." She turns to her father warmly, all but one trace of her previous sadness gone from her features. Her eyes are guarded though. And he can feel the letter bristling in his pocket.

"Mr. Mars, nice to meet you." Toff is all charm and smiles, and has a supportive hand on Keith's back as he leads him into their building. For a moment she's left alone on the street, and breathing in the damp sweetness of the May air, slips her cell phone out of her back pocket and violently punches in a number.

"Hello?" He's practically purring into the phone when he picks up after one ring, and she tenses as she realizes that even from thousands of miles away, her body is reacting to him.

"Was that really _necessary_, Logan?" She asks, her voice soft but her tone severe. He chuckles on his end, stretching languidly and glancing at the framed photo of the two of them-the only one they'd ever taken, sitting at the edge of his desk. "Getting my father involved? Did you really need to get my father involved in…_this_?" Her voice is desperate now, tears pricking the corners of her eyes, but though he can hear her sniffling, he offers not words of consolation.

"It was the only way you'd take me seriously, 'Ronica." She melts into his words, would melt into him if he were in front of her, and has to bite her lip to remind herself that she's getting married in a week.

"There is nothing to take seriously. We meet once a month," She pauses, glancing around, making sure her words are between them and them alone. "We fuck like rabbits and then we go home and remember that we have real lives. For all intents and purposes we stopped speaking 10 years ago when I left Neptune. My father must thinking you're insane for writing what you did in that stupid letter and not even bothering to put it in an envelope-"

"Did he say anything?"

"What?"

"Did he say anything, about the letter. And apparently about the grotesqueness that needed to be contained in a white 3x5." She shakes her head, wishing he could see her, wishing he was here, and to never set eyes on him again all at once.

"No, he didn't say anything. This is my _dad_ we're talking about. He would never say something unless he thought someone was in danger. Which, if you keep this up, you will be." Her voice is bitter now and angry, and in accordance to her mood, the air swells with a sudden chill of cold. She's almost glad as the goose bumps explode on her arms. The cold is keeping her awake, coherent enough to know that continuing this dance with Logan Echolls is madness.

"But see the thing is, Ronnie," She stiffens at the use of her old nickname, hating the sound of it on his lips. "All I did was write a letter. You're the one who called. Almost as if you wanted to talk to me-had an overwhelming _urge_, I would say." He laughs again and her traitorous body responds again. She can practically feel his body against hers, his fingers roaming all over her…

"I'm going to Hell." Is what she mutters into the phone and is rewarded with the sound of his laugh, real this time. It affects her more than she wants to admit.

"We all are, sugar. You and I just might be the forerunners." She nods at this, and even though she wants to hate him, she appreciates this. He's straight with her, and he always has been.

"I have to go, Logan. Toff has my dad in the apartment and he'll-"

"Toff." His voice is icy cold now, and she rubs her temples, wishing she'd never decided to call him in the first place.

"Yes, Logan. The _catalyst_ for your stupid letter? My fiancé. Christopher Abbot Wilson the 3rd. Also known as Toff for short, to those who sleep with him." She adds the last bit in to irritate him, and she can feel the anger radiating off him in waves. He is strangely silent.

"What does this guy have that I don't, Veronica?" His voice is strong and firm in her ear, and she wants to tell him multitudes of things. Job security, ease, humor, normal parents and a relatively scar free adolescence.

"He loves me." Is what she finally responds, her head throbbing. The laugh he omits this time is less mirthful than she's ever heard it.

"I'm only going to say this once, Veronica, so listen carefully. No one will ever love you as much as I love you. Do you hear me?" Her fingers dance above the end button, and shocked indignation rises within her as she realizes that he hung up first.

"V, are you down there?" Toff's voice calls from above her, full of concern and open, easiness. She could learn to live with a man like Toff. Learn to love him in the easy style to which he was accustomed. Heading into the building, she wonders fleetingly if she'll ever forget how to love Logan.


End file.
